Iko iko unday!

Friday was awful. The computer system was down due to a faulty shutdown; near the end of the day, they concluded the only solution was to reinstall the OS on the server and now I'm just praying we didn't lose any data. Also, workers finished cutting up the plaza right above us and began hauling off the chunks. The ramp where the forklifts load them into the dumptruck is directly above me.

So far, Monday is just like Friday with the added bonus that I woke up a whole hour early because it was so stifling in my apartment. But that's not what I want to talk about! Sandwiched between these two days was an awfully satisfying weekend.

( Unfortunately, Saturday began with a snafu. )

So there I was, suddenly without plans. I hopped a northbound bus and realised en route that I was passing Powell's--passing the Burnham Park Powell's and not stopping in to browse? INSANITY! I hoped to get a copy of Anchee Min's pseudobiography of Madame Mao for monshu, and I did--plus a comprehensive Hausa grammar (for $12.50--I had to buy it!), a book on Navajo verbs, one on trends in modern Spanish, one on Missippian mound cities, one of Nanai folklore and one of Ainu, a guide to Japanese signs, and a comprehensive treatment of Mobilian Jargon. The last has already paid for itself, since I was finally able to confirm something I'd heard years and years ago: It is the language in the chorus of "Iko Iko". I haven't deciphered it all, but I can tell you with confidence that "Jockamo feeno" is a corruption of čokma fehna "very good" (Chickasaw čokma "good"). I'm not a man, I'm a parsin' machine!

Heavily laden with literary booty, I rode up to Lincoln Square and bought makings for belegte Brote: real Tilsiter (the Verkaufsangestellte tried to tell me it's the same as Havarti, but I was not fooled!), spicy salami, and fresh Multikornbrot. What could be a better accompaniment to the most screechingly overwrought Ken Russell movie in the cool of cassielsander's groovy borrowed pad? Man, I did not recognise Timothy Spall in that! Must've had something to do with the fact that they took one of the hairiest British men alive and shaved him down to his pasty epidermis.

Many thanks to aizuchi for treating us all to three episodes of the new Dr. Who. He was right that the first was a little weak, but everything clicked in the third: A post-modern Victorian ghost story with a Cardiff setting (featuring, as a bonus, Simon Callow as Charles Dickens). One thing is for certain: This is not your older brother's Dr. Who! They've gone from putting Tegan in a boob tube to featuring a full-blown Essex girl as the newest companion. Oh, and Eccleston is beyond perfect as the Doctor, grinning with maniacal relish at every new threat. Shame he didn't stick around a bit longer.

Speaking of which, I wisely fled before Kindred but--as the result of a liquid soap explosion in my shoulder bag (on the plus said, it never smelled fresher!)--still not soon enough to be on time for my dinner date with welcomerain and spookyfruit. Fine food on Devon, Penn & Teller's Bullshit back at the ranch, their luminous company--I slept well that night.

Sunday morning was basically uneventful: I lay in bed and gleefully paging through my new acquisitions. That afternoon, I ran into Ned the Gardner in the park and ended up getting put to work, but I think that deserves a post all its own.